


The Hostess

by HugeAlienPie



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Dinner Parties, Diplomacy, Light Bondage, M/M, sassy Donna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:51:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh stares at John from the hostess’ chair of the ship’s deck the British embassy pretends is a dining table and tries to decide if he’s receiving the world’s most oblivious breach of etiquette or its most blatant declaration of romantic intent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hostess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/gifts).



> My _West Wing_ fics exist in a time bubble where President Bartlet's always about 3 years through his first term. Just so's you know.
> 
> Also! I know less than nothing about international diplomacy. Don't try anything you read here when mediating India/Pakistan relations.

"You know, Ambassador--"

"John. Please." Lord Marbury-- _John_ \--flaps a hand at Josh.

"When you said 'international incident', I pictured, you know, _international incident._ Troops on borders, nuclear arsenals at the ready." Not crisply efficient embassy staffers zipping around with clipboards and smart phones.

"It will be one of those--" John pulls his glasses off the top of his head and slips them on, which Josh finds sexier than expected. "--if we can't fix this." He leans over to peer at something on the table, and _of course_ that's sexy, barely controlled energy and long, slim fingers clasped above his incredible ass.

 _Arse_ , Josh thinks, and snickers. "What is it?"

"A seating chart."

Josh stumbles backward, tripping over his own toe. "Ah, no. The last time I had to do one of those, Sam and I set the White House on fire. Don't you have--" He grabs for one of the staffers; she gives him a look that encompasses all the disdain of the British empire for its upstart former colony for the past two hundred years and zooms off again. "--people for this?"

"My staff excel at their jobs, but the seating chart requires a surgeon's touch. It is and has always been my duty. In the past, Sarah assisted me, but..."

 _Sarah._ The name hangs in the air between them, jagged like an open wound. Josh wants to pry, but John's upper lip is so stiff it could cut glass, so he tries, instead, to rescue himself again. "You know who you want? Will. He's General Bailey's son, you know. Or his stepsister, Elsie--she works for Dr. Bartlet, and--"

"I am acquainted with Mr. Bailey and Ms. Snuffin." John straightens and stares hard at Josh over the tops of his glasses. "And while I concede that their diplomatic skills may exceed your own..." He trails off and takes half a step closer. The air rushes out of Josh's lungs, and the skin at the nape of his neck tingles. "I came to you. I need _you_ , Joshua."

Josh can only nod dumbly, mesmerized by John's piercing gaze. He drops his backpack to the floor and steps up to the table. "All right," he says, then clears his throat, horrified at the husky rasp his voice has picked up somewhere along the line. He removes his suit jacket and hangs it on the back of the nearest chair. "What's the problem?"

John's grateful smile jellies Josh's knees, and he waves at the index cards laid out around the table. "The problem, as always, is religion. British etiquette, by which I am bound, holds that guests at a dinner party be seated in an alternating male-female configuration, and that a married woman never be seated beside her husband. Islamic law, which only matters to two of my Pakistani guests but will matter to them a _great_ deal--and _they_ matter to international relations a great deal--prefers that a married woman never be seated beside a man who is _not_ her husband or a male relative."

Josh nods sympathetically. "Sure, right," he says, rolling up his sleeves. "And you only have three trips in the rowboat and you can't leave the fox alone with the bag of corn."

John snorts and shoots a look from the corner of his eye that Josh can only hope is fond exasperation, although it seems on the verge of evolving into something altogether different as his eyes linger on Josh's bared forearms. He tears his gaze away and jabs a finger at two index cards that haven't even made it to place settings. "Given also that two of my Indian guests are a delightful lesbian couple, one of whom was assigned male at birth, and I'll consider myself fortunate if the fox comes to the bank at all."

"Not sure your guests will appreciate being the fox in this analogy," Josh says with a chuckle.

John answers with a smile wicked enough to eat. "Not sure I give a particular damn."

*

 **New message from Josh Lyman:** i've been hit by the sherman tank of diplomacy.

 **New message from Donna Moss:** @ least the food is gd.

 **Josh Lyman:** um.

 **Donna Moss:** u were there 3 hrs & u didnt eat? when u r president i m moving bk 2 my homeland.

 **Josh Lyman:** been over this. little too queer 2b president. but if I m ill come 2 yr homeland  & steal u. & a lot of maple syrup.

 **Donna Moss:** make ljm make u a sandwich. he likes u. least he can do.

 **Donna Moss:** make sure its a gd sandwich. ljm likes u a LOT.

*

When the invitation arrives, thick black lettering on heavy cream card stock, Josh stares at it for twenty seconds before he tucks his phone under his ear. John picks up on the second ring. "Joshua?" Josh hears traffic sounds behind him and assumes he's indulging his bizarre love of hot dogs carts.

"We spent three hours on that seating chart, John. Why are you messing it up?"

"In fact--" Josh hears a faint jingle as John pockets his change. "I realized we forgot something very important. You're doing me a favor, actually."

"Huh." Josh turns the invitation slowly in his hands. "Ah-kay. Black tie?"

"Dear heaven, no. This thing will be tedious enough without dragging the soup and fish into it. Just look...dapper."

"Dapper."

The traffic noise cuts off abruptly, and John's voice is an unexpected purr in his ear. "I have every faith in you, Joshua. You're such a delectable morsel already."

"Um." _Excellent work, Lyman. Very smooth._

But John chuckles low, the sound pooling at the base of Josh's spine. "See you at seven, Joshua."

Josh hangs up and rubs his face. "Crap."

*

 **New message from Josh Lyman:** help! what do i have that makes me look dapper?

 **New message from Donna Moss:** purple velvet knee britches. paisley ascot.

 **Josh Lyman:** even i kno u dont wear paisley w/purple velvet.

 **Donna Moss:** navy suit. off-white linen shirt. silver checked tie.

 **Josh Lyman:** ty

 **Donna Moss:** hes going 2 eat u alive

 **Josh Lyman:** god i hope so

*

Josh... _wonders_ about John sometimes. After the last general election in India, he walked Josh and Leo through exactly what the results would mean for India, and for India/Pakistan relations, for the next five years. Eight months on, and his predictions are spooling out exactly on-target. On the other hand, he has never once called any of the Bartlet daughters by the correct name, believes Danny Concannon is the president's driver, and has, on three separate occasions, attempted to gift Leo with a bottle of thirty-year-old scotch.

So Josh stares at John from the hostess’ chair of the ship’s deck the British embassy pretends is a dining table and tries to decide if he’s receiving the world’s most oblivious breach of etiquette or its most blatant declaration of romantic intent.

When John said “dinner party”, Josh foolishly thought _dinner party_. Even helping sort out the seating chart failed to instill the proper appreciation for how enormous the affair would be. Now that he finds himself in a position where he’s expected to maintain some semblance of order over the situation, he’s realizing exactly how far over his head he is.

He likes to think he’s holding his own. He's sitting beside one of the lovely Indian lesbians. She really is lovely, and under other circumstances, Josh would find her bright smile and witty conversation quite charming.

Too bad he can’t stop looking at John. He blames the ascot.

Although Josh took Donna’s suggestion about clothes, John’s outfit makes him feel as dapper as a pigeon beside a peacock. John’s black suede shoes and gray flannel trousers play nicely with the navy blue silk shirt. And then the blood-red ascot arrives at the top to smack them all around. Josh cannot take his eyes off the ascot. Every time he glances at John (which he has to, of course, to take his social cues. Of course), it’s like a cape waved at a bull.

_A long, lean form spreads naked across crisp white sheets; a splash of red binds straining wrists that rest against the headboard._

Josh asks the woman to repeat her last sentence.

Dinner grinds to its inevitable end, and the assembled company retires to one of the needlessly large number of sitting rooms for coffee and aperitifs. Josh wants to start knocking back shots, but he’s the hostess here, apparently, and he needs his wits about him. He needs _all_ his wits about him, he thinks, if he wants to keep up with whatever game he and John appear to be playing now.

John starts relating an anecdote about Queen Victoria, apparently a relative of some sort (they’re all related, and he could recite you the family tree from Arthur Pendragon down.

John's hands, even the one holding his drink, punctuate the story, flying around like actors playing it out on a stage, lively and _very_ agile.

_Long, cool fingers dance fast and sure along his heated, aching cock, playing him like the world's most tautly strung violin._

He just manages to catch his teacup before it tumbles to the ground. John looks over, eyebrow raised, the faintest twitch of a smile suggesting that Josh's goose is well and truly cooked.

Another hour passes in a pleasant haze of half-attended conversation and half-ignored sexual fantasies before he and John are seeing the last guests out the door. He starts picking up discarded cups and napkins, turning his feet toward the kitchen, only to find John leaning against the back of a chair, arms crossed, mouth quirked. "I do have staff for that. And they grow rather disgruntled when dinner guests do their jobs for them."

Josh winces and sets down his handful. "Force of habit." He straightens and peers at John. "And I'm not really a dinner guest."

The mouth quirks further. "You seem to have forgiven the presumption rather easily."

Josh shrugs, scratches the back of his neck. "Not much I can't forgive you, John," he says quietly and pretends he doesn't hear John's breath hitch. He looks up, grinning. "So your guests balk at women sitting with men, but they're not blinking at implied buggery?"

One pale, expressive hand goes flying again. "Merely one more lamentable but unsurprising example of Western depravity. So long as no Allah-fearing Muslim is actively subjected to our lustful ways, blind eyes may be turned, especially among so urbane a cohort."

"Hmm." Josh nods, eyes darting around the room. The buggery is, as far as he's concerned, far more than implied--it's dancing through the room, doing everything but shake its rump at them both. But the moment has stalled somehow, and Josh isn't sure how to get them from snark and innuendo to...whatever's supposed to happen next (it should involve a bed; that's all he cares about, honestly). _Say something,_ his inner Donna suggests. _Something clever. You're disgustingly good at clever._ "So...Sarah." His inner Donna stomps his toe with a sharp-heeled shoe and storms off. John grimaces, and for a second Josh fears he's going to follow her. "I'm sorry."

"No, no." John waves off the apology. "A valid question, all things considered."

"The breakup was very recent."

"There was no breakup, Joshua."

"But she--I thought you'd--" Josh is not that guy. If John is still with Sarah, Josh is _gone_.

But John smirks again, as only he can, and says, "The word you're looking for is 'beard.'"

Josh blinks. Smiles. Files the information on Sarah and remembers a three-month stretch, after John returned from a long diplomatic mission in India, when he'd had an actual beard. "It was a good look on you," he blurts, only then realizing he's taken a step forward.

A _real_ smile on John now, and oh, god, Josh _wants this_. "You noticed." It's not a question. "I enjoyed your noticing." Josh's not sure which one of them moved, but they're closer now. Almost close enough to touch, tantalizingly out of reach.

Josh feels his answering smile stretch his face. "I enjoyed noticing." Closer. _Closer._

John chuckles, low and heated in the back of his throat, and then _someone_ grabs _someone else_ , and it absolutely does not matter who, because _John's mouth._ It's a furnace, an iron vise, a lot of other ludicrous metaphors Josh's sex-starved brain keeps throwing out unsolicited. He doesn't care what he can compare John's lips to; he just wants to keep kissing them, nibbling them, sucking them into his own mouth. Wants to press his tongue against John's, his whole body against John's, grab his hips with both hands and _pull_ until they stand flush and flushed, panting against each other's mouths.

"Joshua," John murmurs between kisses, "have I ever given you the embassy tour?"

Josh's laugh ends in a gasp as John swallows it in a kiss. John grabs Josh's wrist and hauls him out of the room, down a long hallway, past several staffers who jump out of the way, startled but not truly surprised. Josh will regret that at some point, but this is not that point.

Up the back stairs, along another hallway until they stand before a tall double door with some sort of coat of arms in bas relief above the lintel. "That was the embassy." John drops another kiss and opens the door without looking. "This is my bedroom."

It's not, actually; it's the sitting room that fronts his bedroom, because you can't be British ambassador to the United States without a master suite. But it's close enough, and John is shedding clothes urgently but still gracefully, which Josh envies the fuck out of, and after almost three years of dancing around each other, this is finally going to happen _._ Josh scoops up John's ascot from where it's fluttered to the floor and stuffs it in the pocket of his suit coat as he follows John into the bedroom proper.

One last flurry of arms and fabric and they're naked, observing, cataloging, drinking each other in. Josh holds his eyes open so long they water, and he wants that, _craves_ the burning as he commits every inch of John to memory. They face each other at the foot of the bed, not touching now, but there isn't a thread of uncertainty in Josh. He will take whatever is offered and give whatever is asked, and whatever happens, it will be _good._

John's hand reaches out, ghosts down Josh's side. "Tell me," he says. It's low and commanding, and Josh groans.

"I want...god. Those _hands._ I want your hands on me."

John raises an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "With the vast array of my talents and experience before you, you ask for a mere handjob?"

Josh waggled his eyebrows. "No, John, I ask for the best handjob of my life."

And it is, not because of John's hands (though they must be in some weapons database at the Pentagon), but because of the _filthy_ thing John does with his tongue in Josh's mouth, the syncopated counterpoint that keeps Josh off-balance, off-rhythm, tension building in an unpredictable torrent of glorious confusion until he explodes with a hoarse cry and no warning, white spots at the edge of his vision. He gasps and shudders his way back to himself, then grabs John's head with both hands and kisses the smug right off his face.

He pulls back and studies John's face. This is, he thinks, the first time he's seen John truly at rest, brilliant hazel eyes calm for once, not scanning the horizon for the next crisis, the next adventure. It's a gift, something few people get to see--and it makes Josh want to rile him up all over again.

"On the bed," Josh says, planting one more nipping kiss on John's jaw before springing away. He finds his clothes in a heap on the chair by the door and yanks the red ascot from his pocket. It seems almost to wink at him. He grins and flourishes it at John as he turns back to the bed.

John has clearly been arranging himself in a "sexy" pose (as though any position he puts himself in _isn't_ sexy), but now he stills. His tongue darts out, licking his lower lip. Josh's grin slips, and he stalks forward, crawling slow and deliberate across the bed. John's hands grip the back of Josh's head and yank him down into a kiss, wet and demanding, all tongues and teeth and swallowed moans.

John slides his hands down Josh's neck, over his clavicle, onto his chest. Josh grabs them both in his empty hand and yanks them up, over John's head. He searches John's face, and John nods once, eyes struggling to stay open. "Say it, John," Josh says. "I need you to say it out loud."

John nods again, jerkily. "Yes, Joshua," he rasps. " _Please_."

It's barely a knot at all; John could get out of it with barely a tug, but from the gentle way he pulls against the fabric, testing, Josh knows he won't. "Lower your arms if that's uncomfortable," Josh says, "but don't try to touch."

It's not that Josh has thought about this--much--he tries to avoid thinking about what sex with John would be like, because he does have a country to help run--but he knows men like John. He knows what it sometimes means to them to have someone else make the decisions for a while. The knot isn't what matters for John; it's the permission Josh is giving him to relinquish control for a while.

So Josh slithers his way down John's lean body, dropping kisses along the way, his hands always a few inches ahead of his lips, always doing something just different enough to keep John off-balance (serves him right), but once he's reached his destination, he doesn't waste any time, just grabs John's hips with both hands and swallows him down. John lowers his arms, crooked at the elbows, and covers his mouth with his hands. Josh thinks he sees John bite down on his knuckles at one point, but his mind is on other things, so he just tucks the knowledge away for later.

Josh's throat is raw and his mouth is going numb by the time John flings his arms back above his head and then goes perfectly still and comes with a breathless sound that might, under more coherent circumstances, have been Josh's name.

Josh climbs back up John's side, gently, almost reverently, unties John's hands, and collapses, spent, against the arm that _just happens_ to fall right there. John rolls over, cups his free hand against Josh's cheek, and kisses him. Slow, languid, long; Josh can't remember the last time he was kissed like this, like these two mouths are the only things in the world that matter. He sighs and drags his arm up John's thigh, bringing his hand to rest at the small of John's back, at the top of his ass.

John pulls away, yawns. "I am utterly worthless the morning after a dinner party." He says it with such casualness it _has to_ be rehearsed. "Fortunately, Melisande makes the most divine omelets in the world. She'll make you one, too, if you ask. But she does not handle coffee. Very territorial about the coffee, Bertrand is."

 _Melisande Duchamp--embassy chef,_ Josh's mind supplies helpfully. _Bertrand Holloway, head of staff._ "Are you--" Josh's voice comes out a rusty croak; he clears his throat and licks his lips. "Are you _grooming_ me?"

"It isn't--" John makes a dismissive flap with his hand. "We have chosen difficult lives, Joshua. We cannot simply do things as ordinary people do. I have no interest in turning anyone into anything they are not. I am merely assessing where you...are."

"Huh." Josh studies the scrollwork in the molding. "Where am I?"

"Hmm, let me see." John shifts onto his side to face Josh. "Within the past 24 hours you have assisted in the planning of a difficult diplomatic function, accepted a last-minute invitation to said function, dressed appropriately, and comported yourself admirably. You've also proven sexual compatibility--more of a personal concern than a professional one, though not as exclusively as you'd like to think--and the invitation to stay the night--"

Josh raises an eyebrow. " _Have_ you invited me to stay the night?" John raises an eyebrow to match, but suddenly he's so _earnest_ , here in the soft gold wash of the single lamp, and Josh aches in ways he's all but forgotten. "Invitation accepted."

"Excellent," John declares, overly hearty. "Level 6, then."

Josh chuckles. The man is unreal. "How many levels are there?"

"Haven't the foggiest," John says, and now his joviality sounds real again. "Make it up as I go. Different every time." He looks thoughtful. "It's been ages since anyone's made it even this far."

Josh _tries_ not to preen, because a touch of wistfulness hangs at the corners of John's voice there that makes him a little sad. But.

"Now, Joshua, don't count your crumpets before they hatch." But John's knee is insinuating itself between Josh's legs, heavy and warm, the wiry hair of his calves a delicious contrast to his unexpectedly soft skin. "Somewhere around level 50, you meet the Queen."

"John," Josh says warmly, nestling his fingertips in the crook of John's arm, "I've _met_ the Queen. She patted my hand and called me a lovely young man." John snorts. "Which, not coincidentally, is also why I know what CJ looks like choking on white wine."

John laughs brightly and trails his hand down Josh's arm. "I _do_ like you, Joshua," he murmurs, and Josh hears a host of meanings in the words, the tone, that he isn't sure John means him to. He swallows and smiles, because he doesn't trust his voice just now. John searches his face and says, "Hmm," and Josh has no idea what he's decided, but he springs out of the bed with an imperious "Don't move!" and moves toward the bathroom before Josh has time to sort anything out.

Josh has his phone out and his fingers flying across the keyboard before John can get the water warmed up.

*

 **Josh Lyman:** joshua, lady marbury. sound gd?

 **Donna Moss:** omg he will take u 2 ascot. i will buy u SO MANY HATS. then ull accidentally blow up nepal because u forgot 2 eat.

*

Josh doesn't see Donna's reply until he's been in the office almost an hour, by which point he's made a breakfast request from Melisande and a coffee request from Bertrand (level 7, easy), picked something for John to wear (level 8, insanely daunting), and helped a distraught British national with an issue that initially seems life-threatening but turns out to be barely worth calling trivial (level 9; John grimaces and confesses that it's much more common than Josh might be willing to deal with. Josh laughs and reminds John where he works). He pictures himself at Ascot (level 30?) and laughs before archiving the messages.

Josh isn't distracted while he reads his morning briefs; he's not flighty during his criminally boring conference call with the Joint Chiefs' assistants or distracted when he checks in with Leo. He feels... _grounded_ , at home in his skin in a way he hasn't in months.

When John "happens" by his office around three (though Josh knows damned well he doesn't have a single pressing reason to be in the White House), Donna waves him through immediately, calling, "Don't nuke Nepal!" as he passes.

"Damn," John murmurs, closing the door behind him, "there go my evening plans."

Josh grins and flexes his fingers once, twice, around his pencil before throwing it onto the desk and coming around his desk for the kiss he's been imagining all day. "Oh, good," he says softly, sliding his hands around John's waist under his jacket. "Then you're free."


End file.
